


Singe

by ridorana



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: late in-game but no spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridorana/pseuds/ridorana
Summary: Wrapped in the clamor of The Sandsea late one night, Balthier takes time to reflect upon the very merry band of fools he's journeyed with thus far. The evening progresses into something far more educational than he planned.All in all, that doesn't end up being a bad thing.(sequel on hiatus)





	Singe

There’s laughter all around. A boisterous group they prove to be, all nine of them. What with the addition of Al-Cid and his two assistants, Rabanastre’s Sandsea tavern is open well past closing’s hour for their private celebration of nothing in particular, save for the simple fact they can. It was Al-Cid’s idea, no surprise there - Vaan only igniting it further when he divulged the potential of a private bar and discounted liquor within it. 

What the Rozarrian is doing in Rabanastre, Balthier cares not. Al-Cid has an awful knack for showing up uninvited and staying until morn. And anyway, after the pirate's seventh shot of cactoid liqueur ( _bajtra_ , Vaan had called it)  he is able to drown out the fop’s cheap velvety drawl easily enough.

Balthier is slouched over some chair with two circle tables pressed together before him. They’re glazed with rivulets of spilled ale, and littered with empty glasses, half-empty glasses, loose coin, cards, and a pair of sunshades the pirate is half-tempted to accidentally brush off and step on. It’s all a mess, evidence enough that the night is going well, despite the damned western chit purring like a ripe coeurl in heat to anyone who will listen. 

Though, he digresses - all vexation wrapped in too-thick, too dark hair and a grandeur that threatens to upstage him at every word, Al-Cid certainly knows how to start a party.  He can bask in the temporary absence of the spotlight for now; being a Leading Man can be exhausting for a group of six. Why, the pirate is almost grateful for the understudy coverage. It allows him a moment of reprieve oft not warranted by their journey at hand, and well-deserved enough it is after carting everyone’s arses across Ivalice and back, all while still maintaining his charms and good looks.

In a calculated haze only the well-on-the-way-to-drunk can muster, Balthier takes in the energy surrounding them. 

Ashe is rosy-cheeked as she stares down at the cards fanned in her elegant hands. The liquor has softened her features--all but her brow, which is, perhaps, more furrowed than usual as she gazes into the cards she was dealt. How very like her. She plays the game well, her face a solid mask of anonymity. Basch swigs what can only be a fine Nabradian mead as he peers over her shoulder; princess and knight sharing a seamless bond. It is enough to curve the edges of Balthier’s lips as he takes note of them both. Basch, bless the sod, is smiling - no teeth, never teeth, but a grin nonetheless lifts his features as Ashe runs her fingers along the edges of her cards. If she isn’t giving her hand away with her face, Basch certainly is. 

Balthier eyes Ashe’s naked ring finger and thinks in nothing short of smugness that it’s a rather becoming look on her - it would have never done to have her fidget still over the smooth silver this far into their journey like a pining fishwife contemplating mass genocide _a la nethicite_ in blind vengeance. Balthier applauds his foresight now; watching her hands wring about it even that early into this folly had been tiresome enough then.  

Ashe’s eyes flit up, to the collection of cards on the table, and she stares at them contemplatively for a moment before her eyes shift to Balthier’s. They linger on his, and in that quick instant he can tell - she has misunderstood his gaze. Within hers, now, is a quiet promise and a threat all the same. Balthier doesn’t waver - what Leading Man would in the eyes of royalty? - and merely holds the tension for a second longer, allowing her to be the one who breaks it. Ashe’s attention returns to her cards, and with a graceful surety she draws and flips a card onto the well-loved wooden table, pitted as it is with nicks and chips. Her eyes do not return to him.

She thinks she’s playing hard to get. 

She has misunderstood much, and still yet misunderstands, dancing a sparring dance with his shadow as her unwitting partner to a tune only she can hear. He will let her. A princess of her stature does what she wills. Everything surrounding them now is evidence enough of that.

He can’t deny he’s thought of it before. A story of a pirate and princess would be a fun one to tell, oh, to be sure! The trope is overused in fiction, but in reality? That would certainly be one for the books and taverns adding, as it would, further rumour to the whispers of his conquests echoing through Ivalice. Yet Balthier will not indulge. They both have baggage enough. He cares not to unpack hers for the sake of a bullet point on a bucket list - the Strahl hasn’t enough room. _Were_ he to do so, it would be purely for the tale, and Balthier prides himself on his foresight; it would simply not be worth it, comely enough though she is with all her Dalmascan grit. Additionally, as if all that isn’t a deterrent enough, he’s doing just fine without his head on Basch’s sword. 

Her curiosity of him is a quiet guarded thing, and has been for some time. She expects, he thinks, that he will pursue her. But the pirate harbors no intent. A nasty tangle all this is in itself. He doesn’t want a fallen princess in his bed, nor a reclaimed Queen, and she - she may think she wants him, but she is wrong. Ashe doesn’t know  what she wants. Only  what she does not.

Balthier can say the same of himself. They are not so different, though she is braver, stronger. This, he knows. He would not be this far into their little pilgrimage for someone he deems unworthy of the goal. Balthier is a man who cares not for wasting time. This endeavor has proved, thus far, to be worth his while enough. 

He has not forgotten his promise to her; the ring sits, cradled in a handkerchief inside his left beltpouch, collateral - only to remind her of her duty and nothing more. He is a _pirate_ , for Faram’s sake. Must he remind her of that? There is _business_ to his line of work, though she may turn her pretty nose up to it all she likes.

Without that blasted ring, she seems lighter, now. When she finds what she wants, she may wear it again, along with her crown. 

Long has their journey been. Long will it continue to be. And when it is over for them, it will be only just the beginning for her.  Ashe was never meant to rule, but she is well on her way. And Ivalice will be all the better for it. They’ll make sure of that.

For now, they drink. It’s all they can do with the night they are given. 

Above the din of glass and chatter, Al-Cid chuckles at some anonymous joke, but Balthier does not spare him a glance. The Rozzarrian banters on with his card game, and Penelo - Penelo, bless her heart, is well into her cups at this deep hour. She is an expressive drunken sot and it is nothing short of admittedly hilarious. She’s leaning on Fran, talking far louder than she is aware about a new spell she has learned while Al-Cid’s assistants, each flanking one of his shoulders, peer at her with grins. The plaited Dalmascan takes another dainty sip of her ale (how did she get this far into the night with tiny sips like those?) and raises a wobbly hand as she exclaims the details.

“It’s called _Scathe_! Wanna see?”

Fran, ever level-headed and damnably iron-stomached (she has certainly matched him in shots so far tonight yet she still looks as though she’s only just risen with the sun), stills Penelo with arched white brows and elegant long fingers. “Mayhap later, Penelo,” she offers gently. Al-Cid’s _Little Birds_ giggle, a rolling chitter that sounds like dice across a board.

“Right,” Penelo says, nodding vigorously. Balthier wonders how that doesn’t make her dizzy. Then, she sways, and he realizes it does. “Later.” 

The sky pirate can’t help but snort, finally. Penelo is a boisterous drunk, the most out of all of them to be honest. She plays with the frayed flaxen of the tail-end of her braid, and sinks her head into Fran’s shoulder. The viera does not seem to mind. In Penelo, Fran sees Mjrn, however small, however subtle. It is obvious enough in battle, when his partner is quick to heal the girl, and off the field as well, when Fran teaches Penelo to tell time with the height of the sun, how to re-string a bow from Mesminir tendon, how to tell directions in the pitch black of the mines. It was _Fran_ who asked these errant orphans to come along to begin with, and he writes it off as the thin Bhujerban air messing with her headspace, all those months ago when she added this solid pair to their group.

He remembers the lilt of her smile as she asked, _“Will you be joining us?”_ An extended hand to war orphans starved for the sky, and what kind of fool would deny such an offer; what kind of idiot would take one? Why, just the two they were equipped with, since that very moment.

All things considered, they are brave, and their combined strength and magickal cognizance have saved everyone’s arses more times than they can count, now. A right merry band of fools they prove to be, the lot of them. Yet Vaan and Penelo have done much to pull their own weight, especially considering they’ve never been past the lonely outpost of the Nebra nomad camp before this adventure began. 

They are not a burden, as he once anticipated. 

Well, Penelo isn’t, or won’t be if she doesn’t destroy the entirety of Rabanastre with drunken Arcane magick before Vayne gets a shot at it. 

Speaking of shots…

Balthier had sent Vaan off to grab another round and although liquor of this quality makes quick work of distorting time, he realizes it’s been awhile since he’s seen the _Stupid_ half of Penelo’s _I’m With Stupid_ routine. The pirate directs his gaze downwards from their balconied perch, and notes the bar is suspiciously free of both errant orphan and bartender.  

“Where did Vaan run off to?” Balthier asks Penelo, Vaan’s designated keeper. At this, Penelo blinks and looks around, as if she’s only just realized he is missing too. She glances behind her, down to the bar where Balthier’s eyes just searched, and once she too notices it’s empty her face breaks and twists into a wicked grin. She’s giggling to thin air now, at a joke only she finds funny. 

“Oh,” Penelo says lowly, pausing a moment as she wiggles her eyebrows, “I bet I know where he is.” Her laughter dies down to a snicker.

Balthier just quirks a silent arched brow at her, and the girl doesn’t need verbal encouragement to continue. 

“Tomaj is missing too,” she points out.

“And?” Balthier prods, thinking that has little to do with where Vaan has gone off to... unless. _Ah—of course._ The _snakehyps_ those Dalmascans are so fond of smoking, some herb that burns and makes tongues heavy and cores light in a lulling high. Two teenage boys off together smoking that away is no surprise there amidst a party, and he remembers doing so himself well enough in the depths of the Lowers during their years. Though there, they coined the drug a different term - _sinsemilla_ , it was. And far less potent in the North, too, he’s found out the hard way. There was an instance once lately where Balthier had taken the orphans up on the offer of smoking and after one hit he had been out for hours. Never again.  

“And? _And_? Balthier - hic - look ‘round. Whaddyou see?” Penelo slurs, gesturing crudely in no specific direction. “An empty bar. Rabanastre’s most famous bar, empty. The Sandsea, Rabanastre’s famousest bar. Empty.” 

Balthier only blinks, implementing a patience that’s grown into a now-commendable thing this far into their journey. Penelo continues.

“Empty, and closed. To everyone, ‘cept us. Why? Hic.” She points a finger at him, an accusatory little jab of her pale appendage. “Cuz Vaan said so. To Tomaj. And _Tomaj_ , Tomaj does whatever hic. Vaan says. ‘Cause Tomaj is _whipped_ ,” she blurts the last word like it’s a scandal, and chugs the remainder of a nearby half-filled ale glass that likely isn’t hers. When she slams it down, her lips are wet. “Hey, Balthier, how’s that liquor? The _bajtra_? Hic. Yeah. Thank Vaan that’s free on our tab.”

Balthier’s brow wears a fine line across his forehead. “I’ll be like to do so, once he returns with the round I sent him off to get nigh on a half-hour ago. Simple enough though he is, what do you propose, he got lost?”

This garners a shriek of laughter from Penelo. Fran’s ears twitch, the poor things. “Oh yeah. Lost. Vaan’s lost getting another round all right!” And then it’s Penelo who’s lost, in a fit of giggles, obscene and seemingly heedless to the fact she’s digging Vaan a grave. “C’mon, Balthier, you’re making it too easy! Almost, hic, as easy as Vaan is.” She covers her now-red face in Fran’s shoulder and beats her head against it lightly until Fran stills the girl.

Balthier doesn’t get it.

Well. He _gets_ it - Penelo’s being as subtle as a brick to the face. But he doesn’t get it. He must be missing something. That’s likely, as Penelo is off her damned face and is making as much sense as Vaan does ever, which is nigh on naught. Fran is staring down at her too, intrigued, but it seems that’s all Penelo is able to divulge because she’s laughing like a Balfonheim pirate and slapping her knee.

Curling his fingers around the edge of the table, Balthier pushes himself back on the chair and stands. “Well, you certainly are an ore-mine of information, Penelo, like to rival that of Lhusu. I’m off to find Vaan and remind him the importance of staying on track in the pursuit of important matters.”  Such as fetching free booze. What good else is he if not for that? “If he can’t remember to grab a round of shots, I’m like to think he won’t absorb much from any lesson my generous nature is swayed to impart on airships.”

Penelo sniffles from her laugh attack and rubs the tears from her eyes. “Whatever you say, hic, Balthier. Jus’ remember what curiosity killed!” She adds brightly, a wobbly finger rising in the air. She attempts a wink that only looks like there’s sand in her eye. Eyes. Both eyes. It’s awkward. Balthier pinches the bridge of his nose, and heads down the stairs. A drunk Penelo is like as useful as a drunk Vaan. He’ll drag the boy back up by his ears if he must. No need for fading to sobriety when the booze is free and Al-Cid is still awake and speaking less than two hundred yards from him.

He heads down the stairs from the Sandsea’s upper balcony, taking care to grip the banister as the _bajtra_ has done wonders to his equilibrium. He’s pleasantly buzzed, that’s for certain, and by the time he reaches the bottom, the stretched naked expanse of the empty bar is even more glaringly obvious. Indeed, no Vaan nor Tomaj to be seen where they were earlier, chatting idly as Tomaj poured drinks. There’s a metal shaker and a few strewn bottles and a haphazard line of empty shot glasses waiting to be filled, but they’re all abandoned in the quiet downstairs expanse of the tavern floor.

Balthier pads down along the length of the bar and thinks, might as well make use of it. He pours himself the contents from the shaker, nameless liquor though it is, and lifts the glass.

“ _Vaan_.”

Further from the clamor upstairs now it’s quieter, and Balthier hears the word, low but sure. He stills, the glass rim paused at the parted seam of his lips, and strains his ears.

“Yeah?” It’s Vaan’s voice now, followed by a low hum. It comes from his right, immediately at the bar’s end; an entry to an open hallway drenched in shadows. Likely a path to the back storage rooms and kitchen. The sounds crawled from there, and Balthier returns his filled glass down to the bar quietly as curiosity rears its ugly head. He follows the voices.

As he steps into the entry, into the dark, he sees no one even with the stretch of light pouring from the Sandsea’s main floor. The glow claws several yards into the hall before fading to black, and the hall twists in a corner deeper into the building’s innards. As he steps closer, the voices grow more distinct.

“Come back here. Now. Gods, come _on_.”

The words are firm and stark and though Balthier hasn’t heard this _Tomaj_ boy speak often, it’s certainly his voice.

Slowly and with a perfected, seamless silence which has felled many an unlucky headhunter, Balthier slides against the stone wall leading further into the Sandsea’s depths, and peers around the corner.

What he sees makes him hard-pressed to turn around.

He’s found Vaan all right, and he has the barkeep boy pressed against the wall, his body curved against Tomaj’s like sun against stone. Vaan’s kissing him, this Tomaj, who can’t be any older than Vaan himself. It’s a mesmerizing sight for the shock factor alone, but more than that, it’s Vaan that has stolen Balthier’s attention. There’s light behind them, though dim - a lazy crested string of magicite lanterns in the hall’s distance leading to the kitchens. It contours their silhouettes, round, lilted, whimsical, both damnably Dalmascan. He watches from his pocket in the shadows from the corner, concealed in the darkness, and he presses against the stone wall as they continue, blissfully (emphasis on _that ,_ certainly) unaware of his quiet gaze.

Vaan kisses with a drunken passion akin to a hungry desert Lobo, intent on wearing away the barkeep like the seethe of Firaga. Tomaj, thin-framed though he is, takes Vaan’s weight against the wall, hands pulling Vaan even closer against him with the edges of his vest.

They part, and were Balthier not listening intently to their spectacle, he would miss the sound it makes. But he is, and so he doesn’t. There’s barely a gap between them both as Tomaj and Vaan suck in small gasps of air in what are just two precious seconds before Vaan goes in for the kill again. A selfish personal agenda is written in the cant of Vaan’s rounded chin as he surges forward, and Tomaj’s head would have slammed against the wall with the force had Vaan’s hand not been behind to catch it, curve his fingers around his hair, yank. Tomaj grunts, a twisted pleased sound.

Balthier realizes he could just as easily turn around and join the clamor again upstairs, but - no, this is far more interesting than a game of cards and a sotted Penelo. This is far more interesting indeed. He can’t find it in himself to look away. Their bodies mesh against each other in nothing short of seamless familiarity; this is not new to either of them. They know each other, like this, like more than this. It’s all tongue and lips, unabashed, shameless, desperate. Balthier watches and dares not to breathe. This close, and it’s impossible not to hear the sound of their kiss - lips wet and desperate and hungry. Tomaj - Tomaj is unexceptional enough, and against Vaan? Even moreso. A nameless Dalmascan in a sea of thousands of nameless Dalmascans filling this city, this little barkeep will spend the rest of his days in these pretty desert walls. It is Vaan Balthier can’t take his eyes off of.

This certainly is different.

Vaan isn’t supposed to be …this. This is _Vaan_ he’s talking about, all street-grit and bumbling _boy_ traipsing in Penelo’s shadow and dragging her hand-in-hand wheresoever he goes, inseparable at the arm even in sleep, where he’s seen her curl ‘round him like a vice, snoring happily. Why no, in all honesty Balthier has not ever suspected that _here_ is where Vaan has been spending his time when the Strahl docks overnight in the Royal City, which they’ve done several times since regaining Her wings.  

This entire time Balthier has assumed it’s been Vaan and _Penelo_ taking solace above that blathering bangaa’s shop where they used to live, indulging in what only two seventeen year olds can in a moment of privacy.

How laughable that Vaan has been doing just that this entire time… but with this lanky, bossy little Dalmascan barkeep in private corners and rooms both above and, evidently, within the Sandsea. It all makes sense; the free liquor, the locked tavern to everyone but them, the heads-up on exclusive hunt bills Vaan filters to their group, the private storage space tucked in the Muthru Bazaar that all six of them have used for classified rendezvous several times already.

Yes, it all makes sense - though of course, coming at him from askance and aside in very much the fashion of his life. With the curveballs the gods have been throwing at him as of late, Balthier can hardly believe he didn’t expect this one. Alas. 

So lost in his thoughts, Balthier almost misses their words. It’s Tomaj who speaks first.

“Stay tonight. Stay with me.” Tomaj’s hand sifts through the feather tufts of Vaan’s hair, and Balthier feels his hands tingle with a familiar itch - a _thief-itch_ , Fran calls it, though he cares not for the _t-word_. Vaan brushes his nose against the bridge of Tomaj’s, a simple gesture that’s tender enough to further solidify the hypothesis that this has been an ongoing tryst for some time.

“Duh.” Vaan responds. It’s easy, effortless, obvious, a word Vaan has blurted enough. Here, he echoes it with the same lack of grace. Balthier watches the curves of their noses against each other as Vaan rests his forehead against Tomaj’s. In unison, their chests rise and fall. Tomaj looks up at Vaan, a minute tilt of the chin.

“Good.”

“I gotta be off in the morning, though. Early.”

“Morning isn’t tonight.”

“Whatever. I’ll be there.”

“What’re you doing again?” Tomaj’s question sounds almost irritated, as if Vaan has been taking too long in the shower instead of hauling arse through ancient ruins, war-torn battlefields, and gods-be-damned mist-heavy hellscapes to return a rightful queen to her throne. 

“I told you. I’m off saving the world.” 

Well. At least he’s to the point.

“Right. Will you hurry up with that? I miss you, idiot.” What an indignant little chit. Balthier can only imagine what they’re both like in bed together. Two brats aren’t better than one. He wonders if they get anything done behind closed doors or if they just banter at each other until they fall asleep.

“Workin’ on it. And hey,” Vaan grinds against Tomaj here, a roll of the hips that looks horribly licentious and nothing like Balthier has ever imagined him capable of, “I’m not an idiot. I know lots of things. Like how much you love it when I do this,” and here, Vaan yanks Tomaj close by the flimsy yellow scarf wrapped around his neck, pulls it down with two fingers Balthier can’t take his eyes off of, and latches his mouth there. He watches Vaan lick, bite, and suck at the newly-exposed flesh, and Tomaj flatters the churl with pretty sounds from his throat that make Balthier want to roll his eyes. Ah, the theatrical manner of coupling youths. 

Beneath his lace collar, Balthier scratches at his neck idly - a thoughtless thing. 

He notes how Tomaj grips Vaan’s biceps, hard, as if he’s afraid Vaan will up and leave if he doesn’t. And with the way Balthier has seen Vaan eye the expanse of the sky like a wistful lover, the pirate wagers holding onto Vaan with a grip like that may not be unwise in the long run. _Hah_ \- Though holding onto flesh can only do so much when one’s heart sings of sun and clouds. Tomaj thinks like a small-town boy if he believes mere touch can anchor a pirate from the sky. The question remains though, still - will Vaan take off like a spiral to the sun, or remain here when this is all over?

If Vaan wants the sky as badly as he says, he will leave Tomaj to choke on his dust. It is inevitable. But only time will tell. Vaan is no child, but he is young, and he will make that decision on his own. 

They kiss again, unhurriedly this time, Vaan’s hand on Tomaj’s soft jawline. When Tomaj breaks their kiss to love on the blonde’s ear with his lips, Vaan makes a noise that is, in all honesty, a little too lovely.

“Let’s go up to my flat.” Tomaj is carding Vaan’s hair through his fingers. It falls from his touch like rivulets of silk. It looks soft. Has it always looked so soft? 

“Can’t,” Vaan states simply, nipping at his jaw. Tomaj groans, indignant; must be an orphan thing, to throw a right fit when their way isn’t met. The parallels do not miss Balthier. “Not now, at least. We gotta— we gotta go back out in a sec. They’ll be looking for us soon.” 

“Vaan.” Tomaj growls, low. “I want you.”

“I want you, too. But later.” His hands belie his words, wandering against any patch of bare skin he can find. And with the laughable excuse that is Dalmascan garb, such is not a difficult endeavor. 

“I hate when you keep me from you.” There’s something sifting beneath Tomaj’s voice, bemused, wistful. _Whiny_.

Vaan hums, a smile in the note. “I’ll make it worth your while.” The promise in his voice is sharp and sure, full of heat and want. He then chuckles, a laugh Balthier has heard countless times though this is not a circumstance in which he has ever fathomed hearing it. 

Not that he’s spent much time fathoming the sources of Vaan’s laughter, truth be told - beautiful though the boy is, there are plenty of beautiful boys in Ivalice, ones that are older and more well-versed in the world and all its wrought-ugly guts. Those are usually the _men_ Balthier finds himself with behind closed doors. There’s an edge to a bedmate like that, a ferocity the Archadian craves on nights when he needs to take and be taken. Those are the men that leave him sated in a crumpled pool of cotton on a nameless inn bed. It is a standard, familiar enough. It does the job. 

But this? Vaan has never been a prospect to the pirate. Odd, that is; Vaan seems so different now, so very different than he did even ten minutes ago, yet in his core nothing has changed. He speaks just like he always has, carries himself just as he always has. He is still the same Vaan. When did he miss these signs? Balthier wagers he must be rusty. 

Vaan has always been easily written off as all _boy_ , a soon-to-be-skirt-chaser once he’s done running around like a right twit for treasure and trouble alike. Vaan was - is still - a bumbling fool, though one who is far from childhood by many years in the wake of war and famine and plagues. It is an insult to both him and Penelo to call them children. No, he is not a child, never has been to Balthier, but even with this knowledge he has never been an option, either.

Until now, with Vaan is tucked away in a dark hall kissing another boy's neck long and slow for a second time, and looking quite skilled at it to boot.

“Y’know,” Tomaj’s voice is a strangled gasp when Vaan has finished marring his neck, “if your friends aren’t gonna pay for this liquor, they’d better tip.”

Vaan snorts. “I just gave you a hickey for like, ten seconds, and all you can think about is gil.” The sound that follows is that of him unlacing Tomaj’s vest. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll pay enough for all of them - and with more than just the tip.”

What a clever hellion! He commends Tomaj at not missing a beat when the barkeep says,

“I run a business, Vaan. Talk is talk until it’s more than that. Pay up.”

Vaan’s laugh is a snaking thing, winding its sinuous way into Balthier’s veins. “Your jokes are as cheap as you are.”

“That’s never stopped you.”

They kiss for what seems like the umpteenth time. Balthier wagers he’s seen and heard enough, and takes his leave just as silently as he made his entrance.

When the pirate emerges from the darkened hallway into the light of the tavern’s main floor, it feels as though he’s crossed the line back into reality, entered a portal leading back to some semblance of sanity. Without pause he snatches the filled shot glass he hastily abandoned earlier. The liquor is bold on his tongue and he swallows it with little regard as to quality or quantity; he’s waited long enough for it.

It appears Vaan has the tab covered, anyhow. What a charitable churl.

He moves to head back up the stairs, only to pause mid-step, glance behind him at the bottles, and swipe them in his grip with a swift arc of his hand. Something tells him the bartender won’t be returning to his post - if anything, Balthier’s learned he’s like to be busy enough with Vaan’s for the rest of the eve.

Penelo is still draped over Fran like a dead weight but she does not miss his entrance as he returns. “Well? Didja find what you were looking for?” She’s smirking again, though her eyes are glazed with lethargy. Balthier merely blinks, his face a beautiful facade that her pretty little drunken head has not the fortitude to tease apart. Fran however is another story. He’ll take care of _her_ gaze later; she’s reading him like an open book.

“ ‘Fraid not, Penelo.” Balthier takes a seat and grins down at her bleary eyes, placing the bottles neatly before him. They’re almost empty, but they’ll do. “Seems he’s taken his leave, however _momentarily_.” She snorts.

“Yeah, I bet they’re up in - hic - Tomaj’z’ _room_!” She blurts, scandalized. “Doing… doing…” She can’t finish her sentence, because she’s laughing an ugly, snorting laugh again that’s peppered with the occasional shriek. She hits the table in her amusement, and tries to make some obscene gesture with her hands and mouth - an attempt at a pantomime for a blowjob, though in her inebriated state her movements are mismatched enough to just make it all a right mess. It’s clear she’s never done anything of the sort, and once again, Balthier is reminded that this night is full of educational surprises. Fran shakes her head, and lifts Penelo with little trouble.

“I shall see her to bed.” The viera holds Penelo with one lithe arm ‘round her small waist and guides her up. “Come, Penelo. We head back to the Strahl.”

Balthier props his feet up on Fran’s now empty seat. “I trust you’ll take care of her mess?”

Fran doesn’t miss a beat. “Well-versed enough am I with all breeds of your messes, Balthier; hers will be of little matter to me.”

Damn her, the lovely thing.

At this, Penelo bellows out a gale of laughter, low and long, and were Vaan with her he would likely have chimed in until the whole city came running in response to Fran’s merciless jab. From the corner of his eye he can see Al-Cid biting his lip at the exchange, and it amazes Balthier that the Rozarrian has any resolve whatsoever. Smart man, to practice it here and now.

Penelo hiccups again, and lets Fran whisk her off. “You should see him with the guy, Fran, it’s gross,” her voice travels even as Fran heads towards the door, high-pitched “ _oh Tomaj”_ ’es in her wake as she mimics what can only be Vaan, until her voice fades completely in their absence. The door locks behind them, and now, the Sandsea feels much quieter.

Balthier straightens his cuffs and flits his gaze about the table. Ashe and Al-Cid have foregone their card game, opting instead to pay more attention to their drinks and chatter. Basch joins in when necessary, though he, too, is more apt to soak in the conversation than contribute. Al-Cid’s assistants talk amongst themselves in weirdly melodic Rozarrian.

The sky pirate clinks one of his ringed fingers against a glass and the remaining company quiets somewhat.

“Last call is self-serve, lads and ladies. Seems our bartender has clocked out early for the night. Pick your poison,” and here, Balthier gestures grandly to the bottles he brought from the bar. “Though if you’ve plans to sleep on my ship, do mind mixing your liquor lest you harbor desires to clean the aftermath with a toothbrush.”

Vaan and Tomaj do not return. The rest drink and bid goodnight at their leisure.

When Balthier leaves, he doesn’t tip.

The pirate sees himself to the _Strahl_ , drunk enough that sleep will find him with no trouble once he showers and hits the pillow.

The water’s spray is hot and welcome, and within it, Balthier’s mind easily wanders to Vaan again. Behind the dark curtain of his eyelids, he sees Vaan’s fire, his grit, his valor all epitomized into a furious passion the Archadian has never considered. The images replay in slow-motion; the drag of Vaan’s lips across flesh, his greedy touch, his arching press, the demand woven through his voice. There is a firm assertion in the way he curved against that plain barkeep, one that heats Balthier more than the water dripping down the expanse of his bare flesh can. It pulls at him like the singe of an entite. Dangerous. Beckoning. Forbidden. Powerful. There is potential there, within the simmering core. Given some time, it will grow to something irresistible and all-consuming. Time does well to kindle a flame of Vaan’s ilk. Balthier’s thief hands itch. He wants to tempt it.

Something will be done about this.

Not now. Not soon. But later, some years further, when the wait has aged like a fine wine, Balthier will have his long-awaited sample of what Vaan has shown he can offer.

And to be sure, _that_ is a tale he looks forward to telling.

 


End file.
